


Fragile Human Parts

by calrissian18



Series: Actual Watch-Wolf Derek Hale [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And ADHD-ness, And Rambling, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective Derek, Stiles Wins Sarcasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has a bruise on his leg.  No, really, it's a lot more dire than it sounds.</p><p>Or the one in which Derek is protective – over all the wrong things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile Human Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fullmoon_ficlet's third prompt: Bruises. It's a good thing it had to be a ficlet because I would have just gone on and on in Stiles' fantastical sarcastic ADHD-ness.
> 
> *fingerpaints on ALL the walls* NEW FANDOM, NEW FANDOM, NEW FANDOM!!!1!!1 *snatches up paper bag, hyperventilates, wheezes, coughs* New... fandom? *weak fist pump*

 

Stiles is sitting on Derek's craptastic sofa, innocently tying his shoe when a too-strong hand grabs his ankle and impatient fingers yank up his pant leg.  He's about to jump up and spout something about at least getting dinner first when Derek growls, "Who did this to you?"

Stiles moves his gaze away from the red filtering into Derek's and looks down at his leg.  There's a truly unattractive-looking yellow/green bruise covering most of his calf.  Stiles flushes and shrugs.  Derek does not look impressed.  He puts on his best scowl.  He has no doubt it looks utterly wimpy in comparison to Derek's.  "What?"

Derek's eyebrows do an impressive and bushy Dance of Doom and Stiles is painfully aware that everyone is watching them.  He clears his throat and says seriously, "Ah, that would be the very evil, most likely soulless coffee table in my living room.  Jumped right out at me when I was on my way downstairs for a glass of water.  Pulled some karate moves on it, à la _Crouching Tiger_."  He then, of course, demonstrates by holding up karate chop-ready hands at lightning quick speed.  "And I don't mean to brag or shame your Alpha badassery but I _more than_ took care of myself, my friend.  Reduced it to tinder."  Stiles frowns.  "Or, well, I could have, if I wanted to.  I decided to exercise some clemency and let it live but the lesson has been learned.  _The lesson_.  Has been learned."  He brings his palms together and bows his head.  "Stilinski, merciful warrior.  It knows its place now.  And so do I."  He nods and then adds, "You know, right in front of the TV.  Next time I'll probably just walk around _the back_ of the couch and, then, you know, I won't run into it.  Avoid the awkward tension, what with how I totally _dominated_ it and... _What_?"

Because Derek has not stopped staring at him.  Or altered said stare any.  It's beginning to become just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  "What, Derek, _come on_.  I'm a squishy encasing full of fragile human parts that bruise if you look at me too hard.  Easily breakable am I," he clarifies, Yoda-like.  Derek still looks lost.  "You know, we all think it's going to be this bananas werewolf stuff that kills me but I bet the universe looks at me and says, 'Why Mr. Stilinski, we have something much more _mundane_ in mind for you.'  I mean, I could get salmonella from my eggs in the morning.  Do you know one in every 10,000 eggs has salmonella?  I mean, say you eat two for breakfast every day, that's one in 5,000.  Or I could just as easily slip in the shower or get run over by a car in the middle of the night.  You know, the list goes on."  Derek now looks as if someone's struck him – _hard_ – and, really, how can you be this dense and still be the Alpha?  Stiles enunciates slowly, "Fragile.  Human.  Parts."

Derek frowns but lets go of his ankle and Stiles high tails it out of there, not caring one whit if Scott follows or not.

* * *

The next morning Stiles pulls his head out of the fridge with a frown that wrinkles his nose and calls loudly up the stairs, "Okay, eating every egg in the house?  So not good for your cholesterol.  I am docking you bacon for a month."

An indignant, "Stiles, I didn't—" is what he gets from his lying liar of a father who lies.

"Stiles _has spoken_."  Stiles tries to use his most omnipotent voice.  "There's no use trying to worm your way out of it now.  No bacon for you!"  He grins to himself, _totally_ pulled off that Soup Nazi impression like wa-BOW.  Batman sounds.  He ignores his dad's sputtered protests as he Batman-sounds himself out of the house in his head with accompanying karate moves – Kapow, Zok, Crash, Whamm!

* * *

  
Lacrosse practice is that special time of day when he gets to be one with nature.  Or, you know, mud.  Really more mud than anything.  He has to get Scott to work because, you know, bro time.  And yes, they're _making time_ for it and, no, that is _not_ sad.  So he waits until he's home to shower.

He pulls back the curtain and finds a surprise.  Not the good kind of surprise either – like a naked 5'3" strawberry-blonde nut job.  "Dad," he shouts, "did you get me a _shower mat_?"  Stiles glares at it.  It has _suction cups_ , for fuck's sake.  "You know I'm not a hundred and seven, right?"  He doesn't get a response.  He suspects it's either from a) guilt or b) his dad having not perfected the art of somniloquy yet because Stiles is 97.3% sure he's asleep in the study.  He grumbles to himself as he climbs in, "At least it's not an effing safety bar."

* * *

  
It's not until the thing with the backpack.  And his shoes.  Till the thing with the backpack _and his shoes_ that he figures out why his dad has no freaking clue what he's been talking about.  He supposes he'll have to reinstate those bacon privileges.

Because there are _reflectors_ on the straps of his backpack and the heels of his shoes.  _Reflectors_.  Like he's seven.  He's either a geriatric or a seven-year-old and Derek has, of course, taken him _far too_ literally.  He's definitely glad he didn't say he could have died from tainted meat.  He really likes being an omnivore.

* * *

  
Stiles tags along to the pack meeting and finds Derek outside on the porch waiting for them with his regular super happy I-look-like-someone's-yanked-out-my-insides-with-a-hot-fire-poker expression.  Scott offers him a grin – he's seen Allison that afternoon – and a pat on the shoulder as he heads inside.  Stiles pauses as he's going past and shoves his hands in his jeans' pockets.  He hunches up his shoulders and says, "You put reflectors, on my shoes."  He holds up his left foot as evidence.  It's damning really.  " _Reflectors_.  And there's a shower mat in my shower.  And no eggs in my fridge."

And it's been a while since Stiles has been at all intimidated by Derek but his eyebrows have drawn low in a Meet Thy Fate sort of way and a low growl rumbles up out of him as he challenges, "Your _point_ , Stiles?"

Stiles yanks his hands out of his pockets and holds them up at his sides in a universal Don't-Kill-Me-I-Surrender placation.  "Point?" Stiles tries a little madly.  "No point!  Who says I had a point?  I _like_ reflectors!  Right—you're holding up the thing.  Meeting.  Pack. The pack meeting thing.  Shouldn't we be learning how to kill things with our teeth?  Unless you want to stand about and chat all day, Hale."

Stiles races inside and completely misses the shit-eating, I'm-so-pleased-with-myself-I-could-rip-a-deer-in-half grin Derek directs at his back.

**Author's Note:**

> I have an obsessive personality and a transitory desire to get over my disgust of abbreviated words so... [tumblr](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/) happened. Feel free to follow!


End file.
